Close to Enough
by hogwartsaheadcanon
Summary: "I want to hold it Moony. I want to hold it, because it's warm and beautiful, but it hurts." While on the run, Sirius writes a letter to Remus in an attempt to explain events 13 years previous. But some distances can't be crossed, as much as the two men, still in love, might want to. Just realised I had the characters tagged wrong before- sorry! Remus- NOT Regulus... oops.


Goodness, my first disclaimer. Never thought I'd actually get here. If I owned Harry Potter, I would perhaps have written this fic in pyjama bottoms I'd not owned since I was 13. It's embarrassing, really.

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Little note- I realise _now_ that I can't do strikethrough on here *curses*, so I've, slightly jarringly, resorted to [this] to indicate struck through text. Hope it still reads ok. My first published fic, so... maybe go easy, yet simultaneously be ruthless. Yes. Good plan.

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 _"Moony? This Defence essay's a fucking nightmare."_

 _"Oh? But I thought you didn't need to look over any of the book? Didn't you say you knew it all?"_

 _"Knowing, my furry friend, is very different to explaining."_

His sixteen year old self had got that much right. Nearing twenty years later, the vast, blank expanse of empty parchment was causing him even more problems than it had then. Not least because Remus wasn't there to help him puzzle it out. Not least because this particular piece of parchment was, supposedly, a letter to the aforementioned absent Remus. Knowing was still incomparably different to explaining. He didn't feel sixteen again. Not even close.

He had cigs now- the first time in over twelve years. Back in the day he'd smoked straights- Benson's Special Filter, much to the chagrin of Remus who had fiddled with baccy and rollups to keep his costs down, all fingers and thumbs but never quite in the right places. They'd joked that Remus's rolls had looked as though they'd been partially chewed by Padfoot. Sirius had bought all the paraphernalia to roll his own this time, partly to give him something to do with his hands. Partly.

The smoke curled up and bled into the surrounding mist as he took a drag and stared. He wasn't sure where he was exactly, but it was fucking cold despite only being August- somewhere in Europe, as far as he knew. The grey wisps from the cigarette curled into spirals, reminding him of Amortentia, and he had to swallow to urge to be sick. He looked back down at the parchment, though it made him feel little better.

He didn't know how to do this. Over a decade to think and he couldn't find the words. Or he could, maybe- that had always been more of his problem. He could find hundreds of words, thousands probably, but when it came down to it he forgot how to use them. Forgot when it mattered. Part of him knew it didn't really matter now, however much he might have wanted it to. Would always want it to. There had been something broken in Remus's eyes- cracks in the amber that he'd instinctively known had been cracks between the two of them. He hadn't expected anything else, of course, except he had. He'd hoped.

His fingers were going blue at the ends from the cold and the vice grip on the quill feather he'd persuaded Buckbeak to part with, and he remembered a time when he'd laughed at Remus's inability to stand the chill, tugging the sleeves of one or other questionable jumper down over his knuckles.

 _" 's_ _cause_ _you're so lanky, Moons. You need to eat more chocolate."_

 _"Or you need to stop eating all my chocolate before I get the chance?"_

He was even thinner than Remus now, despite the incomprehensible fact that the eternally wiry taller man had lost yet more weight over the last twelve years. Sirius felt he weighed the world all the same: guilt sat heavy, so heavy, on his shoulders. He'd promised to protect Remus from exactly that: from the fact that despite his reputation for the best Hot Chocolate north of the equator, he would set fire to toast if left to his own devices. From the fact that once a month the moon seeped into his blood and set it on fire, broke his bones, tore him open from the inside. There was a new scar on his face now, Merlin knew how many others altogether. Sirius had known every single one once. At least Remus couldn't say he knew all of Sirius's scars anymore either, but somehow it didn't feel like any sort of a consolation.

 _[Dear Moony]_

 _[Dear R]_

 _[Remus,]_

His own hand felt alien as he rested his face in it. How did one breach twelve years, two deaths and so much pain? So much betrayal? How did one breach a loss of love when one's own was still burning a hole in one's chest? How was he supposed to say that he understood and that it was ok when, yes, he understood, but it fucking wasn't? It wasn't ok. It was not ok. But it _was_ nonetheless.

 _[Remus]_

 _Moony,_

 _[I_ _This_ _I'm sor]_ _Fucking hell, you [_ _know]_ [ _knew]_ _know I'm shite at this- always have been. [_ _Remember that time you said I had the universe in my head, and that's why half the time I couldn't get to anything that made sense? And I thought if there was a universe in my head, it wouldn't have a moon. Not one. I don't know if I ever told you that, or why I'm telling you now, but]_

 _Sorry, my handwriting's shocking. I haven't written all that much since I was twenty-one, so I suppose it makes sense. Except of course none of it does- not a thing, not even now. I should probably understand the most, because it's my fault, but it doesn't help me understand. I can't understand how He could do that to us after so many years of being friends, can't understand how I was stupid enough even after realising how well he'd played us to go after him and_ still _fucking well underestimate him._

 _I can't understand how I fucked up with you most of all. Well, I can actually. I can see the steps in my head- how it went from point A (a hint, barely even a whisper He dropped into a conversation) to point B to C to D to E for Everything falling apart._

 _You always used to say you could never kill an idea, and that's where it began. Just a seed of doubt, and it grew like knotweed and strangled any small ability I had to sustain a sensible thought. It wasn't that I didn't trust you, Remus- I didn't realise that at the time, but I know now. I didn't trust myself. You were- you are- weirdly perfect. Wonderfully brilliantly fucking flawed and I love your flaws as much as your qualities, which absolutely terrified me then. Still sort of does. The world was getting darker and darker around us and even when you came home after weeks away and wouldn't tell me where you'd been you were still brighter than my namesake, over twenty times brighter than the sun. And I didn't trust myself, because you and the happiness I felt around you seemed so… out of place amidst the horror and the confusion that I started to doubt that you could be real. Which sounds fucking daft now I write it, but I can't think how else to word it. I knew I was biased- sort of constantly blindsided by you, and I wondered whether I'd see it if you_ were _the traitor, or whether I'd just skim over the signs with a smile like the fact every single one of your socks had a hole in, or the chocolate wrappers you left in bed. And that grew- that self-mistrust- until I'd convinced myself that you_ **had** _to be the spy, and that I, in my rose tinted desperation to see you as some celestial being, must have just missed it._

 _I was an idiot. You really were just like that, for me. Warmth. Hope. You remember how much we hated hope some days, Moony- how we loathed it? Like the time we cut out pictures of the Minister and all those shitty little quotes about eventual triumph and keeping moral high, and chucked them in the fire because we were so sure it would never end. I hope it did for you, Remus, after a time. I hope these past 12 years have given you that much at least._

 _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry._

 _I'm sorry to Harry, to James and Lily, to those poor bastard muggles who got caught in the crossfire. I'm sorry for you. Sorry for us. Sorry for me. And I know that there's not enough ink in the world to write sorry enough times to make it ok. It'll never be ok- I broke things that can't be fixed now, and I know that we're one of them._

 _And I'm not going to try and lie to you because you'll know, because you've always known. I'm not going to say I'm not still in love with you just as much as I was then, I'm not going to say I'll ever stop. But I know you spent twelve years thinking I was a traitor, that I killed all those people and Lily and James and Him. I know you've had to live with that, alone, because I stole everyone from you just by being a fucking idiot, as per usual. I know that you put the last nail in the coffin of any love you ever had for me long ago- that you probably buried it alongside the friends I got murdered. I won't ask you to dig it up again though- I know it would be pointless for you to try. I understand- that much I will say- and I'm not writing this in order to ask for anything in return. I guess I just want you to know you still matter, and always will. And I hope that if you've not burned down every bridge that connected you to me, you can still find a way back to being my friend, because that was how I loved you first, and that won't ever not be enough._

 _I wish I could say it better and I wish it were close to enough._

 _Take care of yourself Moony, and I hope one day, if nothing else, you'll let me help again._

 _Your friend,_

 _Pads_

His fingers shook from more than the cold as he sealed the envelope, having to wipe condensation from the part broken window of the hut he was hiding in because his mouth was too dry to dampen with his tongue. It would have felt wrong anyway- too intimate. Too close to a kiss.

...

Remus didn't recognise the owl pecking impatiently at the glass, but then that wasn't all that unusual- it wasn't as though he had a hoard of regular correspondents. The bird clearly wasn't waiting for a reply, almost dropping the faintly damp envelope into the sink before about-turning and taking back to the skies. The ink was a little smudged, and no address was given- just his name. But he knew- he'd recognise that handwriting anywhere, even after all these years. Even if the lines which had once been smooth whorls were now a little shaky and slightly too sharp in places. It didn't matter- he'd spent the best part of two years learning to confidently decipher the bordering-on-pretentious cursive, and it was drilled into his mind- just one in a long list of things he hadn't been able to force from his memory over the last twelve years.

His felt his cheeks flush even as his blood ran cold, hands trembling as he inched his finger along to tease open the envelope. He thought he knew what he was holding- what words sat in the palms of his hands, but one could never be certain. Not with Sirius. In all honesty, he didn't want to read it. The letter would hurt- he knew it would hurt, but he owed Sirius this at least after having so hideously and agonisingly misjudged him for so many years. Remus knew he had to do it, but that didn't make it any easier to unfold the parchment.

His breath caught in his throat as he was dragged back on the swirl of his name in the familiar script- back through the years to nights in the common room, comparing essays, prank plans, lists, hastily balled-up notes tossed between them because the distance from one armchair to another seemed like far too much effort. God, if he'd known then- if he'd only known how much more gaping the space between them would grow, he wouldn't have hesitated. The Remus of 16, 17, 18, would have leapt from his cosy seat, inevitably knocking several books, a stack of notes and a hot chocolate to the floor before tripping over his own socks. But then he would have stumbled across the few feet of carpet and into Sirius's arms, into his kiss. Would have carded his fingers through long, black hair and held on, told the world and the future and everything outside of them to _just fuck off_ , because he was _never_ letting go- that the few places they weren't physically able to fit snug against one another were as far apart as they'd ever get.

But he hadn't known- couldn't possibly have known, and likely wouldn't have believed. It was one of the problems with adoration, that. The Remus of Then, who had already been through more agony and horror and seen more of life's darkness than anyone had a right to have done so young, still couldn't have even begun to comprehend such suffering to come. Sirius was a rock. Unchangeable, indestructible. Un-takable. Sirius had been _his._ The idea that _anything_ could force them apart would, quite frankly, have been laughable to the both of them.

A habit they'd all picked up from James, that: in the face of any of life's awfulness, laugh.

He doubted James had been laughing in the end.

He didn't know how to react to what he was reading: it seemed his body had many options to suggest, but he seemed incapable of picking which one. He could be sick, or scream, or break everything in his kitchen. He could set it on fire, stow it away safely in an old notebook, fold it gently into his pocket. He could break and cut himself open just to try and release everything bubbling up inside him.

He could cry.

He went for crying as he read over the last paragraph, because it was right. Sirius had always seen Remus clearer than he'd seen himself, and it seemed the years hadn't dulled the ability in the slightest. Which shouldn't have been a surprise really, because Sirius couldn't really have changed.

It was like Herbology- like plants (which Sirius, coincidentally, had always loathed with the fiery passion that was his trademark). They'd been growing together- like ivy or vines wrapped around each other, until Sirius had been covered up. Remus had been exposed to dismally poor light since James and Lily's death- felt weak and yellowed like winter grass, but he'd grown nonetheless, even if not for the better. He'd changed. Sirius had been in the dark the whole time, so how could he be any different than he had been? The cold and the damp and the unending night of Azkaban had preserved him, robbed him of a chance to progress, to change himself. And so Remus had grown away from him.

And it killed him. It _killed_ him for it to be true, because Sirius was the last true happiness he'd known that was still breathing. He'd been wrong, in the letter, to suggest Remus didn't still love him.

 _God,_ he loved him. Loved him so much it hurt, and _that_ was the problem. That love wasn't happiness for him anymore, not like it had been. Warmth. Hope. It was agony. It was memories of things that had been ripped away from them, of simpler times that they would never get back. Of _twelve fucking years_ of dead friends and betrayal and poverty and the freezing cold where he could still feel the absence of a warm body next to his. Could Remus ever kiss him now without crying? Could he touch him without it being like trying to touch fire? Sirius had done that once, in the common room. There'd been a candle on the table, and he'd kept putting his fingers in the flame, an oddly gentle curl to them as though he were trying to stroke it.

 _"I want to hold it Moony. I want to hold it, because it's warm and beautiful, but it hurts."_

And that was how it was for him now. Sirius was fire, and no matter how much he wanted to take him into his arms, his lips, his bed as they had done before, he knew he wouldn't be able to. He'd burn. Even the weak sunlight had dried him out- he felt paper thin now. Flammable.

He left it on the table in the end- the letter- and went to find some blank parchment of his own, along with a quill to mark and scar it with, the way they'd marked one another. He wouldn't send it- he knew that, but he also knew he'd write it anyway. Maybe Sirius would find it one day, and hopefully he'd understand.

The ink was the same black he'd preferred right the way through school. Padfoot Black, they'd called it. From fourth year Sirius had written with an orangey-sepia that looked like old photographs. It had taken Remus several years to understand why.

 _Padfoot,_

 _I'm sorry too._

 _I still love you. I never stopped._

 _I wish it were close to enough._

 _Yours, always yours,_

 _Moony_


End file.
